


We Are Made of Our Memories

by JenyaKeefe



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Amnesiac Derek Hale, Bad Decisions, Cheating, Crying Stiles Stilinski, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Relationship Problems
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-13
Updated: 2018-11-20
Packaged: 2019-08-23 00:29:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16608380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JenyaKeefe/pseuds/JenyaKeefe
Summary: "I don't have amnesia.""Um, clearly you do. You're under a spell that's taken a year's worth of memories.""No. I've wakened from a spell."





	1. Chapter One

Stiles loves Derek when he sleeps.

He loves Derek all the time, of course, but sleeping Derek is special. Awake, Derek shows the world only his armor, his body poised and ready for conflict, his stare hard and aloof. He looks bigger than he is - it isn't just that he's absurdly ripped, although that's true; he seems to take up more space than a normal man. But now, sleeping, Derek's defenses are down. When he sleeps, his body goes lax with trust, his joints easy and elastic. Sleeping Derek feels normal-sized in Stiles’s arms, all graceful bones and supple skin.

Sleeping Derek likes to be the little spoon. Like right now, this morning, as morning sunlight filters through the curtains, he curls snug in Stiles’s arms.

Stiles has been awake for about twenty minutes, just holding Derek, breathing in his smell, enjoying the sweetness of him as he sleeps. But Stiles loves sleepy morning sex, too. So Stiles smiles with happy anticipation when Derek begins to stir, muscles flexing under Stiles's palms.

But maybe he had a bad dream, because all his defenses come right up. Derek's body stiffens, his shoulders go taut. He flinches out of Stiles's embrace and whirls to stare at him, poised to fight, like Stiles is a stranger, a threat. Hostile eyes, hard jaw, drawn brows.

Stiles smiles at him and rolls onto his back, keeping his body relaxed, exposing throat and belly. "Morning, nakedwolf."

That's usually all it takes - just a little reminder of who he is, where he is. That Stiles is trustworthy, and it's all right.

Not this morning. Derek's brows pull down even further. He curls a lip, gives Stiles a look that combines disbelief and disdain, rolls out of bed, and stalks out of the room, unmindful of his beautiful bare ass.

Stiles sighs. Must been a particularly bad dream. It hadn't seemed like it - sleeping Derek had seemed so peaceful and warm - but you never knew. They both had their rough nights, sometimes.

He listens as Derek moves through the house: the bathroom, the living room, the kitchen. His footsteps are almost-silent, wolflike, as he prowls into the second bedroom, which Stiles uses as an office. What's he doing? Inspecting the place for signs of intruders? Stiles can almost hear him sniffing. The back door opens and Derek goes out onto the deck, and Stiles winces: this little house they share backs up onto a green belt that's not far from the Preserve, but it's still in town, and their back yard is in view of neighbors. Stiles would rather not get phone calls about Derek, prancing around unclothed in the yard.

He gets up, shuffles to the bathroom to pee and wash up, pulls on some jeans and a flannel shirt. Padding towards the kitchen, he passes Derek skulking down the hall and slaps some folded sweatpants against his abdomen. "Put some clothes on, Derek, it's November. You'll freeze your parts."

Derek takes them with a wordless snarl, visibly bristling even though he's not shifted.

"Coffee in a few minutes," Stiles calls over his shoulder. "What do you want for breakfast?"

No answer. Shaking his head, Stiles sets the coffee pot to brew, takes down a frying pan, digs in the refrigerator for bacon and eggs. He says, knowing that Derek can hear him throughout their little house, "Got any plans for the day? I was thinking I'd take the car in for an oil change. It's overdue. And laundry, the laundry situation is growing critical."

This is bullshit - today is Derek's birthday and Stiles has absolutely no intention of wasting it on anything as mundane as an oil change - but he's not sure if Derek knows that he knows that. There's a cake waiting for him at the Cricket Bakery - a special order, lemon and blueberries and whipped cream. Carrie-Ann Mason said she'd make it herself. "Nothing that can't wait, though," he adds cheerfully, "if you want to do something?"

He looks up to see Derek, now wearing the sweatpants, lurking in the dim hallway. Shadowed, except for his eyes, which are bright and wide with bewilderment and fury.

"Hey baby," says Stiles. "You okay?"

"I don't think so," says Derek.


	2. Chapter Two

One time, in one of their first arguments after they'd gotten together, he'd told Derek that he was beautiful when he was angry. It was true: Stiles is hot for the grim judgy mouth and flashing eyes. But yeah, saying that in mid-quarrel - that  was a mistake. 

So he keeps his mouth shut and waits, sipping coffee at the table, while Derek prowls around the dining room, unselfconsciously magnificent in his sweatpants and glower. He had scented the entire house, including closets and the attic and the back yard, and was now pacing, visibly uneasy, avoiding Stiles's eyes.

"Derek," Stiles says, finally. "Come on."

"I don't know how to say this," says Derek.

"Sure, I know. Talking's not your strong point. But just spit it out, will you?"

The muscle in Derek's jaw flexes, and then he growls, "I don't know where I am. I don't know what we're doing here." He looks at Stiles. "I especially don't know what you're doing here."

Stiles sips his coffee. Thinks about the wild hunt, the wolfsbane hallucinations. The times perception and memory warped reality like a funhouse mirror.

It had been awfully quiet in Beacon Hills for the last few years.

He says, carefully, "Do you know who I am?"

Derek rolls his eyes. "Of course I know who you are, Stiles," he growls.

"Hey, there's no of course about it. I got erased once."

Derek shrugs this off. "I can tell that we live in this house. Together." Derek's brows are frowny. "The place reeks of you, and your stuff is everywhere. My stuff is everywhere. So obviously. But I don't ... I don't remember us moving in to this house." Derek glared. "Together," he adds. His body language is all discomfort, maybe even disgust. "I know we're sleeping together, but I don't remember." 

"Bummer," says Stiles, calmly. "So amnesia, but not total, that's good. Headache, dizziness? Numbness on one side of the body? Can you count to ten?"

"Go to hell, Stiles."

"Personality seems unchanged," muses Stiles. "I assume you would mention it if you were having medical symptoms, so probably a spell of some kind. We can work with this, Derek, don't freak out. What's the last thing you remember?"

Derek relaxes enough to come over to the table and sit down. "Last night," he says, shoulders slumped.

"I doubt you remember the same last night I remember," says Stiles, "or you'd be in a better mood."

Derek glares. Stiles smirks.

"Last night was a party," he says. "At the loft. Scott and Kira and the pack were down from Seattle. Cora and Jackson came back for it, too, and Malia and Isaac. Everyone was there. And then ... I woke up here."

"Just to be clear," says Stiles, "this was the party a few days after my dad got shot in the knee?"

"Yeah," says Derek, lifting his eyes. "That's not why, of course. It was a coincidence." After a moment he seems to force himself to say, "I'm sorry about that."

"No worries, he's doing a lot better," says Stiles. "That party was one year ago today. I was there."

"You weren't there. You were at Berkeley."

"Uh, my dad had been shot in the knee?" says Stiles. "Of course I came home. And I heard about your birthday bash so I showed up uninvited. You don't remember?"

"No."

"You had already crept off by the time I got there. I found you sitting on the roof. We talked for a while." 

Stiles gets up and pours Derek a cup of coffee. He adds a little cream, because Derek likes it that way. "I guess," he says, "it would be hard to understand how you got from there to here." He hands Derek the cup, pretending not to notice that Derek's nostrils flare slightly as he sniffs it. "But it wasn't really as sudden as it seems to you now. That night, we talked practically all night. We watched the sun come up."

"That ... doesn't sound like something I would do."

"You were pretty down. You didn't want Scott and the others to see how down you were, but I was ... well, I was just me. Not really pack, probably not someone who was going to stick around, but I wasn't really someone you missed, either, you know? I guess you felt safe talking to me for a while. I'm going to make breakfast, okay?"

"Yeah," sighs Derek. "Whatever."

"Whatever, wolf-boy, I know you're starving." Stiles turns on the heat under the frying pan. "So I was staying at my dad's place, of course, helping him because he couldn't get around very well, and oh my God, what a shitty patient. We were gonna strangle each other. I started going to the late movies after he went to bed, just to get out of that house."

"I do that," says Derek, to his coffee cup, so quietly that Stiles can barely hear him over the sizzle of the bacon in the pan.

"Yeah, I know you do," he says. "We would run into each other at the theater. After a few times we started hanging out after, to talk about the movie. And other stuff. We basically started dating, without ever calling it that. We'd meet for coffee or we'd go out to lunch. My dad started teasing me about bringing you over for dinner, and I was like, yeah, can I? I'd like to do that."

Derek's voice is heavy with skepticism. "You're telling me that we dated."

"That's what I'm telling you."

Derek looks slightly revolted.

Obviously it was never a secret to Derek, how Stiles had always felt about him. The smoldering, confusing crush he'd had on him since the first day they'd met. Confusing, because Stiles was sincerely into Lydia as well. But Derek, who was 23 to Stiles's 16, knew what bisexuality was, knew that Stiles's snarky comments and sarcastic banter covered up a conflicted but powerful attraction. 

The Stiles who came home from Berkeley wasn't that teenager anymore. He knew what he wanted and knew how to go for it. But the Derek who's drinking coffee at their kitchen table doesn't remember that.

Stiles makes toast and eggs, plates the food, pours juice. Derek burns through calories like a very large hummingbird. Even when he's happy, he can get a bit snappy if he didn't have frequent meals. Amnesia Derek is not happy, and Stiles is too smart not to feed him.

They eat in silence, Derek's gaze clicking around the house, taking in details with what certainly looks like disdain. Stiles finds himself looking at the place with new eyes. It's a little Craftsman-style house, ninety years old, with uneven floors but beautiful mullioned windows. Two very cozy bedrooms and (unfortunately) only one bathroom. Stiles had fallen in love with it, nagged the landlord to bring the rent down if they fixed it up a little, started obsessively watching DIY home renovation videos before he even agreed. He spent the summer replacing rotten boards on the back deck, cleaning gutters. He stripped thick layers of old gray-green paint off the wainscoting to reveal glowing old oak, stripped even more paint of the front door and painted it a glossy red. He has plans for the cracked orange-brown tile in the bathroom.

Derek said he liked the house, too, but now Stiles wonders if Derek finds it shabby and cluttered. It certainly isn't much like the cool spacious loft where he lived before he moved in here with Stiles.

"So you just stayed in Beacon Hills?" Derek interrupts his wondering. "When are you going back to law school?"

"I wasn't really feeling law school," Stiles says, easily. "Decided not to go back."

Derek clearly has thoughts about this, but he doesn't say anything.

"We talked about it," Stiles says. "Already. We've got a lot of catching up to do, I guess. Or we'll get your amnesia fixed, and then you'll know all about it."

"I don't have amnesia," says Derek flatly. He wipes up egg yolk with the last of his toast, eats it, then takes his dish to the sink and washes it.

"Um, clearly you do," says Stiles. "You're under a spell that's taken a year's worth of memories."

"No." He wipes his hands, then turns to face Stiles, his arms braced on the counter, forearm muscles rippling. "I've wakened from a spell." 

At Stiles's blank expression, Derek grimaces. "Come on, Stiles. You don't think that we would do this, do you?" He gestures between them. "Talking until dawn, sharing secrets? Living together in a little cottage? This isn't us. This isn't me."

"Yes it is us, Derek. I can show you the lease on this place with both of our signatures on it. I've got a receipt in my wallet for your birthday cake."

"You said you were getting an oil change today."

"I was kidding, Jesus. Have you met me?" Stiles stares at him. "I know it's weird for you, but this is all real."

"It's not fucking real!" yells Derek. "Do you think I don't remember how hard you worked to get out of this town? You would never just throw away law school because of twue wuv." He sneers the words, and Stiles gasps, because that? That hurts. Derek doesn't notice. "No way. Someone cast a love spell on us at that party last year, and it's all been rose-colored bullshit since then."

"That's not true," whispers Stiles.

"You only think so because you're still under the spell." 

Derek stomps off to the bedroom, leaving Stiles gaping after him in the kitchen.

There's a tiny part of Stiles that still can't quite believe that Derek would love him. Someone like him. All his teenage years, when he'd silently longed for Derek from behind a mask of snark, there'd never been any hope in his heart that Derek could possibly return his feelings. 

But Stiles learned a lot, living on his own and coping with his own shit. He was different when he came back, but Derek seemed the same. Sullenly, secretly drowning in loneliness, since his pack had moved away, but he stayed. He needed to patrol the Preserve, to monitor the nemeton, to watch out for the people of Beacon Hills. All alone. He never let on to Scott or the others how painful it was to stay, how impossible it was to leave; but Stiles saw it. Stiles drew him out, made him talk, made him listen, and when Derek finally turned to him, it was breathtaking. Derek needed someone to take care of him, and he gradually let Stiles do that. Derek needed someone to take care of, and when he gave his care to Stiles, it had been overwhelming.

"No," whispers Stiles.

No. It isn't a spell. At least, if there's a spell, it isn't on him. Stiles wanted Derek for over a decade; everything that happened this year is the culmination of a decade's longing. There was nothing he wouldn't do for Derek - that had always been true. Stiles knows himself, and he knows that his love for Derek is as true as an arrow to the heart.

Derek, now dressed, comes out of the bedroom and heads for the front door.

"Where are you going?"

"Out."

And he was gone.

No, no, no. Derek loves Stiles, and Stiles knows it. Underneath that prickly exterior, Derek's heart is huge and warm, protective and compassionate, and no one else in the world knows that like Stiles. He just has to have faith that Derek loves Stiles. That once he retrieves his lost memories, he'll remember that, too.

And if he doesn't?

Well. Derek fell in love with him once. He'll just have to do it again.


	3. Chapter Three

 

Stiles tidies the kitchen, showers and dresses, then calls Cora. She doesn't pick up - she never picks up - so he leaves a message. "Hey, Derek is having a shitty day," he says. "Give him a call, okay?"

He leaves a similar message for Isaac, and one for Malia. This one a little warmer, because Stiles still loves Malia. "He needs a friend, and he's definitely not talking to me this morning. Call him?"

Then he calls his dad and warns him that tonight's birthday dinner for Derek isn't going to happen, and promises a raincheck. "No, I think it'll be okay in a few days," he says. "Just a rough morning. You know how it goes."

Then ... he's not sure what to do. He'd sincerely hoped they'd spend at least part of today in bed together, so he didn't make a lot of other plans. And there's no point in trying to find Derek until Derek is ready to be found. 

He supposes he could actually take the car in for an oil change. Do laundry.

In the end he settles down to work at his laptop. He logs into certain arcane and occult databases that he just happens to know about, and starts researching memory spells.

He surfaces from this warren of rabbit holes hours later when he hears the front door open and close. The light in the room has changed, and he grabs his phone to check the time - almost four o'clock in the afternoon. He stretches, thumbing his notifications: Carrie-Ann at the bakery, reminding him to come pick up his blueberry cake before they close. Damn. He forgot about the cake. 

He gets up and finds Derek in the kitchen, taking off his leather jacket and hanging it up on the peg by the door, just exactly like he always does. He has a sort of windblown, refreshed air about him, his cheeks slightly flushed, so Stiles know that he's spent at least part of the day in wolf form. That's good. Wolfing out always settles Derek, relaxes and revitalizes him at the same time. 

Stiles walks right up to him, slides his hands into the back pockets of his jeans and presses against him, leans in to kiss his mouth. 

Derek puts a hand on his chest and gently pushes him away with his fingertips, with the sort of effortless control of his superior strength that always impresses Stiles - just enough force to tip him off balance, send him staggering backwards a step. Stiles regains his balance with a flail of his arms. 

"So, I guess you're still doing the amnesia thing?"

"It's not amnesia," says Derek. "You still seem to be under the illusion that we're more than we are."

"Want me to tell you about last night?" grins Stiles. "I know your sniffer has already given you the basic outline, but I'd be happy to share the details with you."

"Stiles," warns Derek.

"We watched a movie," says Stiles. " _Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon_."

"I've seen it."

"Me too." Stiles eases closer. "Several times. We both found it pretty easy to ignore, actually," he goes on, sliding back into Derek's personal space, "which is probably why I wound up on my knees, with your hands in my hair, and your dick down my throat." Derek growls, almost subvocally, and Stiles leans in again, his lips a breath away from Derek's as he says, "I really liked it. I think it's tragic that you don't remember whether you liked it, too. Don't you? I could give you a refresher --"

"Stop," says Derek, flatly. "I don't want this."

Stiles backs down, backs up, stumbles over his own feet, catches himself against the stove. Turns, eyes stinging with rejection, towards the refrigerator. "Are you hungry?" he manages to ask. "I missed lunch."

"Stiles."

"We have some leftover Chinese from the other night. It's probably still okay." He takes a carton of fried rice out of the fridge, opens it and gives it a sniff. "Yeah, I think it's fine." He rummages for cartons of sweet and sour pork and kung pao chicken, letting the bracing air of the refrigerator cool his hot face. 

When he straightens up, setting the food on the counter, he dares a glance at Derek, who is now leaning against the counter, his arms and ankles crossed, looking far more beautiful than any man who just turned down a blow job has any right to. 

"Just - Stiles, you're smart," says Derek. "Look at yourself right now, and think. Why are you pretending that everything is okay?"

"I don't know," says Stiles. "I guess I - I think that it will be okay. I think that we've dealt with freakier shit than this before."

This was only partly true. The other part was -

The way Derek made love to him, the slow rotation of his hips as he fucked him, the urgent hard clasp of his hands, the gentleness of his kisses. The first time they were together, the way he was so careful, almost reverent. The first time he allowed Stiles to do the same to him, the way he was nervous, but trusting, the way his body arched with ecstasy when he let Stiles take him. The way he told Stiles, with words and with touch, that he was beautiful to Derek, that he was perfect. He told Stiles that he loved him, and the first time it startled Stiles into a laugh. Derek pinned him down, gentle but implacable, and said, "Believe me. I know it seems like a lot, so soon, but you have to believe me, Stiles. I love you." And Stiles laughed again, too happy not to laugh. "I love you too. I've always loved you."

"I've been researching spells," says Stiles. "I couldn't find anything that would cause amnesia for exactly one year." Nervously, he digs a spoon out of a drawer and begins scooping cold Chinese food into microwave-safe bowls to heat up. "But then it looked like amnesia can be the side effect of a lot of spells, not the main event, you know, so I started searching for any kind of spell that might lead indirectly to memory loss, or any kind of spell that lasts for exactly one year, or any kind of spell that might be triggered by significant events, like anniversaries or birthdays -"

"You never wanted to stay here," interrupted Derek. "You studied your ass off so you could get scholarships. Your dad wanted you to go to Sac State because it's closest, but you got a full ride to Stanford and you were out of here."

"Nothing wrong with _my_ memory, big guy."

"No one was surprised when you got into law school at Berkeley. Graduate schools were courting you. I always thought you'd end up somewhere cool and far away, like Brooklyn or Austin. Now you've thrown it all away to play house with me in Beacon Hills. You don't think that's weird?"

"I hated law school," retorts Stiles. "Berkeley is full of posers and wannabe hippie douchebags, and I made a mistake going there. This only seems weird to you because you don't remember all the many conversations we have had about this exact subject."

"It seems weird to me because this isn't you," say Derek, his voice flat. "And it's definitely not me."

"You're wrong," says Stiles, equally determined. "This is me. This is what I want. And yesterday, you wanted it too. And when you remember everything - when you remember everything that's happened between us this year - you'll want it again."

"You are so stubborn," snaps Derek, frustrated. "It is so _obvious_ that someone or something is pulling your strings. _This is your life_. Why aren't you fighting this?"

_Why are you fighting it so hard?_

Stiles doesn't say that out loud.

Instead he says, "Do you want any of this food?"

"I can't eat with _you_." Derek says it with the kind of incredulous scorn that he might use to say _I can't cut out my own kidney_. 

And then he's out the door again, like he can't get away from Stiles fast enough.


	4. Chapter Four

 

Stiles is shaking. The red-orange sheen of the sweet-and-sour pork is nauseating. He stumbles out of the kitchen and into the office, heart beating rapidly. He sits at his desk and gropes with trembling hands for the computer mouse, clicking Scott's number. _Please be there_.

"Stiles!" Scott is hearty, his smile wide. "Happy birthday to the sourwolf, bro, is he there?"

"Scotty," pants Stiles.

"Hey, whoa," says Scott. 

Stiles puts his head down on the surface of the desk. There's no air. His chest feels like it's full of broken glass. "Scotty."

"Okay. Listen to my voice, Stiles. Are you listening? Relax and breathe out. One, two, three, four, five, six."

Stiles nods, exhaling with Scott, inhaling with Scott, letting Scott coach his breathing until the panic attack fades.

"Thanks."

"What the hell, Stiles? Where is Derek?"

"He went out." Stiles wipes his sweating face on the sleeve of his shirt. "Scott. This whole year I've been back in Beacon Hills. This is me, right?"

"Yes?"

Stiles closes his eyes, trying for patience. "I mean, if I wasn't me - if I was different, if something was controlling me -" _again_ \- "you'd have noticed, right?"

"Oh, Stiles. Yes. I'd have noticed." 

"You'd know if I wasn't _me_ , right?"

"Yes, Stiles," says Scott, and oh God, he sounds so sure. He sounds so confident. "I promise you."

"You would know?" Stiles demands.

"I would know," says Scott. "And no. You're you. Ever time I've seen you, every time I've talked to you, I've known that you're you. I promise, Stiles."

"You don't think it's weird that I came home? Like something, something, I was made to do?"

"No, you hated being away," says Scott. "The day you left for college you were all _Yay I'm free_ , but then as soon as you were gone you were like,  _How soon can I come home?_ " 

True. That was true. "Right?" says Stiles. "I came home that first Thanksgiving and I almost missed my flight back to Stanford, because I didn't want to get out of bed."

Scott says, "I mean, I think it was good for you, to go live for few years and learn to survive out in the world, but you always wanted to come home again."

"I did," Stiles says. "God, Scott."

"What's going on, Stiles? What's this all about?"

"This? This. This ... This has not been a good day."

Stiles tells Scott everything, a rambling monologue that takes half an hour and almost gives Stiles another panic attack. When he's done, Scott says, "Stiles, you and Derek both have your heads up your asses."

"Me?"

"One year ago today Derek was deep in his 'No one could possibly love me, I shall die alone' thing. We all wanted to help him, but we couldn't reach him. He wouldn't even stay at his own birthday party. And you came along saved him, Stiles. You saved him. Something about you and him clicked, and you drew him out of his turtle shell and you saved him. So now he's reset back to that, but somewhere inside he's still the guy who knows you saved him."

"Okay."

"And you need to start using your brain. Who would do this? Why would someone want to erase Derek's memories, and who? Did he know something that needed to be forgotten? Did he see something someone wished he hadn't seen? Who wants Derek to forget, Stiles?"

"That's good." Stiles nods. "That's good. I should have thought of that."

"Yeah."

"That gives me something I can work on." Stiles's thoughts are already whirring. "Okay."

"Hey," says Scott.

Stiles recognizes the gentle tone of his voice and smiles. "Not this again." 

"Just - Remember what I told you, when you first got together?"

"I remember."

"I told you that he doesn't get to hurt you," says Scott. "We all went through hell together, and it's _Derek_ , so I totally get it. But none of that means it's okay for him to hurt you. And if he does, you don't have to accept it. You hear me, Stiles?"

"This is so unnecessary," says Stiles. "He would never hurt me."

"Well, if he doesn't remember that, you can come to us. Come up to Seattle, okay Stiles? Any time."

"Okay. You know it's not gonna come to that. But thanks, Scott."

He hangs up with Scott just as his phone rings, and he picks it up without looking.

"Hi, Stiles, it's Carrie-Anne down at Cricket Bakery. This cake is still waiting for you."

"Oh, yeah," says Stiles. "Uh, something came up with that birthday party, but we still want the cake. Can I come get it tomorrow?"

 

***

 

Derek never comes home that night.

Stiles shouldn't be surprised, but he is. He spends most of the night on the computer, hacked into the Beacon County Sheriff's database, combing through the events of the past week. Focusing on the files that are still open, unsolved. There's no shortage of crimes in Beacon Hills that Derek might have witnessed, but it's mostly things like vandalism, car thefts. It doesn't seem like anything you'd wipe a man's mind to cover up.

Magic is expensive. You don't just zap someone like Harry Potter, you need time, study, preparation. If you miss one tiny detail, the spell goes wrong. Magic is a lot of work, Stiles can't find anything that happened in the last seven days that would be worth the trouble to cast a spell on Derek that would make him forget. 

But just because he's not finding anything, doesn't mean there's nothing there. It just means that the Beacon County Sheriff doesn't know about it yet.

When he finally crawls into bed he's restless and wakeful, hoping that every small sound is Derek, coming home to him. 

He lies between the cool sheets and aches for Derek to come home. He imagines saying to him, _I know you don't remember trusting me. I know you don't remember liking me. But I know you're lonely. You hate sleeping alone. So just get in bed and we'll just sleep. We'll just pretend everything is okay, and sleep, just one night._

But Derek doesn't come, and Stiles is bleary and sandy-eyed when he drives over to his childhood home the next day, a bag of healthy groceries in the passenger seat, hoping to pick his dad's brain. 

Noah Stilinski is no longer the sheriff. A little over a year ago he was just getting out of his car outside the diner, looking forward to lunch, when a stray bullet shattered his left knee. It seems to have been a random accident, rather than a deliberate assassination attempt: the bullet had ricocheted off the wall of the diner before blowing bone and cartilage all over the side of Noah's car. But no gun was ever recovered, no witnesses found. Chronic pain and permanent weakness in his left leg forced him to step down, but he still worked for the county, enforcing the law from behind a desk, and the entire department, including the new sheriff, is loyal to him. If anyone knows things that didn't make it into the database, it's him.

But even though it's his day off, Noah isn't home. Stiles lets himself into the house, puts away the groceries, and does some of the chores around the house that require a lot of standing and bending. Noah comes in around noon just as Stiles is taking out the garbage. 

"Hey, kid."

"Hey. You look tired."

Noah eases himself into a chair with a sigh - he has clearly been standing on that leg too much - and Stiles fixes him lunch. Salad. With hazelnuts and blue cheese crumbles on it, because fancy. Noah sighs again.

"Just eat it," says Stiles. "What've you been doing this morning?"

"The kid who shot me came in and confessed."

"What? Who?"

"Andy Mason. He said he found his dad's gun and was messing around with it in the empty lot behind the bakery." 

Andy Mason was technically no kid - he was in his twenties - but because of his developmental disability he couldn't read or speak clearly, and he sometimes seemed a little like a child in a man's body. Several of the downtown businesses let Andy do chores and run errands in exchange for cash, and he was frequently seen loitering around town, smoking cigarettes and waiting for someone to give him something to do. 

"Damn," said Stiles. "What made him come forward after all this time?"

"I don't know. He wouldn't say. He seemed really overwhelmed. Asked me if he was going to prison."

"He's not, is he?"

"No, he's not really responsible. Parrish has gone to have a word with his father about properly securing his weapons, and I had a stern talk with Andy about personal accountability. He cried, poor guy. And that's the end of it."

Noah glumly eats his lunch, pondering the random string of events that ended his career, and Stiles wishes he'd made him meatloaf or something, just this once. 

In the afternoon they watch a football game together, neither caring much about the outcome, both lost in their lonely reveries.

"Do you want to talk about what's happening between you and Derek?" asks Noah at one point.

"Not really," admits Stiles, sinking down into the couch.

"You know I like Derek," says Noah. 

"Oh, yeah," says Stiles, sarcastically. "You're his biggest fan."

"Not at first," admits Noah. "But I've never seen him as gentle, ever, as when he's with you. And you've really come alive since you've been with him."

Stiles hesitates. "You think it's real, don't you, Dad?"

"Yeah kid," says Noah, one corner of his mouth turning up in a smile. "I think it might be real."


	5. Chapter Five

 

When Stiles gets home that evening, there's a car he doesn't recognize in the driveway, and a woman on the porch.

"Hi," she says, with a big smile. She has a box in her hands. "Remember me? I'm Carrie-Ann Mason from Cricket Bakery. I brought you your cake."

"Oh shit," sighs Stiles. "I forgot the cake again. I'm sorry, it's been a really weird couple days."

"Well," she says, still smiling. "Cake helps with all kinds of problems!"

"Hah, can't hurt," he agrees, unlocking the front door. "Come on in. You really didn't have to come out here, but I appreciate it."

She sets the box on the kitchen counter. She is still smiling, but seems really nervous, wringing her hands. "It's still good, even though it's a day old," she says. "It's lemon pound cake, and we made our own blueberry curd. The whipped cream looks a little sad, but it's still a real good cake."

"I'm sure it is," he assures her, wondering why she's so anxious. "Do I owe you -?"

"No, no, it's paid for. It's on my way."

So he thanks her and gets rid of her. When she's gone, he takes the cake out of the box and sighs. It does look good. Derek loves blueberries. 

Stiles goes into the office, fires up his laptop, and gets to work. He does have an actual job - he's a freelance legal researcher - and though his hours are his own, he can't put off his responsibilities just because his boyfriend doesn't remember loving him. (Derek loves him. Derek let him into his heart. Stiles just has to have a little faith.) So he reads through his emails, makes some notes and a to-do list, and focuses his mind on his clients' problems instead of his own. Instead of Carrie-Ann, and why she was so anxious. 

It's full dark when he hears footsteps in the office door, and looks up.

It's Derek.

Derek looks ... a little ragged. Worn around the edges. Eyes shadowed, shoulders weary, mouth white with tension. The way he gets sometimes when he's not eating or sleeping well. The way he looked the night of his birthday party last year, actually.

Without thinking, Stiles says, "God, I miss you."

Derek blinks, startled. 

Impulsively, Stiles gets up and goes to him. He puts his palms on Derek's face, cradling the angles of his jaw, and kisses him. It's a gentle kiss, just a press of mouths, but for a second Derek's lips are sweet and soft, and Stiles makes an involuntary sound of pleasure. Stiles kisses Derek's chin, his cheek, rests his face against Derek's, feeling his stubble against his lips. Inhales the scent of Derek's skin. _Miss you_.

"You," breathes Derek.

Stiles opens his eyes and looks up at him.

Derek's eyes are alight with some powerful emotion.

Oh, this is probably not good. 

He takes Stiles's upper arms in hard hands and backs him into a chair. Stiles sits clumsily, grabbing the armrests for balance. Derek backs up to pace the room, rubbing his lower face. Like he's rubbing away the feel of Stiles's kiss.

"I was trying to figure out who would do this," says Derek. "What motive would anyone have?"

"Me too," says Stiles. "I -"

Derek cuts him off. "I was thinking that you and I were both affected by a spell," he says. "Someone made us want to be together. But why? Who would care? But you - _You_ didn't wake up from a spell. What if you're not under the spell? What if you're the one who cast it?"

Stiles gapes at him. For once, no words come to him at all.

"You came home from Berkeley. You didn't want to go back to law school. You didn't want to leave because your dad's injured. You didn't know what you were doing with your life. You needed some kind of direction. And you always had a thing for me. God, it makes sense." Derek turns to stare at him. " _You_ have motive, Stiles."

Stiles knows exactly what it feels like to be fully submerged in ice water. It's shockingly painful, a convulsive explosion of agony through the entire body. Right now he doesn't move, he doesn't make a sound, but he feels that same sudden shock of pain.

Derek is pacing. "Deaton always said you had something, some kind of arcane spark. You must have learned how to do this in college. It makes perfect sense," says Derek, running his hands through his hair. "I'm living in _your_ dream."

Stiles still says nothing. The icy pain has concentrated around his heart; the rest of his body, his face, feel completely numb, like he's coated in frost.

Stiles also knows, viscerally, like a sickness in his guts, what it feels like to live in someone else's - some _thing_ else's - dream. To not own his body, to not control his hands, to feel alien feelings as though they were his own.

Derek thinks he would do that to him?

He closes his eyes.

For the first time he admits the possibility to himself: Derek does _not_ love him. Derek does not like him, or respect him, or know him at all, if he thinks that Stiles would do that.

"Your heartbeat just changed," says Derek. "Your breathing has changed. I'm right, aren't I?" Stiles opens his eyes to look at him dully, and Derek bares white teeth in a triumphant smile. 

Stiles stares at that smile.

"Stiles? Stiles. Say something."

"No," Stiles says. His voice sounds pretty normal, considering that his entire body has turned to ice. "You're wrong. But. I think ... I think I just woke up from the spell."


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for this chapter only: alcohol abuse, bad sex, self-destructive behavior

Stiles puts on fresh deodorant, rubs a little product into his hair, dresses in his snappiest clothes. Tight jeans, tight black shirt, boots. He slips his ID and some cash in his pocket and heads out, ignoring Derek's curious eyes. But Derek doesn't ask what he's doing, and he doesn't say. 

He's still numb. His face is numb, his lips, his fingertips. His heart continues to beat obediently inside his chest, but he feels nothing. He hopes to stay this way forever.

Jungle is Beacon Hills's best gay club, which doesn't mean it's all that great: it's loud, dark, smells pervasively of male sweat and spilled drinks and something muskier. Tonight the DJ is spinning '80s heavy metal, Ratt and the Scorpions, overlaid with electronic dance beats. It's awful and perfect. 

Stiles starts with a tequila shot, then dances to a song. Has another shot, dances to another song. By the fifth shot and the fifth song he's loose-jointed, dizzy, feeling the thumping of the drum machine, feeling the bodies of the other men dancing around him, tasting the horny anticipation in the air.

By the eighth shot and the eighth song he has allowed a guy to cut him out of the herd - tall, sandy hair and freckles. Younger than Stiles, no one he knows. Stiles loops his arms around his shoulders and moves his body with the music, rubbing against him. The guy doesn't know how to dance, and isn't really interested in dancing anyway. He says he goes to CSU Chico. He says he's in Beacon Hills on some sort of fraternity trip. He's leaving in a few days. He is awful and perfect. When he asks Stiles if he wants to go back to his motel room and have a good time, Stiles says yes.

The guy's motel is within walking distance, and by the time they get there the buzz in Stiles's brain is starting to wear off. 

The room is a white cube that smells like cleaning chemicals. The frat boy turns on the light, and Stiles immediately turns it off. The blinking yellow-red neon light outside the window illuminates stains on the beige carpet, and a shiny, threadbare nylon bedspread. A feeling of some kind is starting to break through the numb icy shell that has formed around Stiles. He asks the frat boy if he has anything to drink. He has a bottle of vodka, warm from nestling among his shorts in his luggage. 

Stiles takes a long slug from the neck, caps the bottle, says, "Right," and gets on his knees.

Stiles lets the frat boy fuck him. The frat boy thinks the lube on the condom is sufficient. It isn't, but Stiles doesn't mind the burn.

Every time he starts to feel horror at what he's doing he helps himself to another warm gulp of vodka.  The light blinks: red, yellow. Red, yellow.

When it's done, Stiles gets up and pulls his clothes on. The frat boy is concerned that he didn't get Stiles off. Stiles assures him that it's no problem. He leaves without saying goodbye and walks back to Jungle, where his car is parked. 

He tells himself that the walk will sober him up enough to drive, which isn't true. He drives home, knowing that he's too drunk.

He weaves up the walk towards the front door, his courage failing him, hoping that Derek won't be there. But no, there he is, sitting on one of the Adirondack chairs on the porch in the dark. Like he's waiting for Stiles. Stiles sees his nostrils twitch, and knows that Derek can smell it all: the tequila, the motel, the vodka, the latex, the frat boy.

One of Derek's eyebrows goes up; his sardonic lips curl. "Guess you decided to move on," he says. Untroubled.

Stiles's breath hitches in his chest. The icy shell of numbness surrounding Stiles shatters into shards of pain. His heart feels like crushed glass, and his eyes fill with tears. "Yep," he says, huskily, walking past Derek without stopping. "Sure did."

He goes inside, through the kitchen and down the hall to the bathroom, where he drops to his knees on the cracked tiles and vomits until he feels like he's turning inside out. Tequila, vodka, the lining of his stomach. Trembling, he undresses, wiping tears and snot and puke off his face with his shirt, and starts the shower. Under the hot spray, he cries. He cries so hard he can't stay on his feet. When Derek comes in, he's sitting naked in the tub, hugging himself and crying while the water pours around him.

Then Derek is there, in the tub with him, fully clothed under the shower. Strong arms wrap around him, powerful hands hold him tight. Stiles is limp and helpless against his chest. His face presses against the thick drenched cotton of his t-shirt and the chest underneath it, and he can't stop crying. 

"Shh, Stiles," Derek is whispering, barely audible over the force of Stiles's grief. "Shh, don't, don't."

He sobs helplessly in Derek's arms until the water runs cold.

Derek dries him off gently, towels his hair, unmindful of his own dripping clothes. He puts Stiles to bed, and Stiles curls up on his side away from him. He seems to be all cried out, no tears left, but the pain is still there, and the humiliation of Derek's care. 

Because Derek doesn't love him. Or like him. Or respect him, or know him. Derek is just being kind to Stiles the fuckup. The weak but occasionally-useful auxiliary non-wolf pack member. That's the only thing he is to Derek now. Again.

He - no matter what Derek thinks about spells and memories - is in a relationship with Derek. A relationship that he thought was forever, forever, forever. A relationship that he just deliberately jettisoned. Someday Derek is going to remember what they were to each other, and he's going to remember what Stiles did.

And it hurts, even if Derek doesn't care.

He hears Derek peeling out of his wet clothes and curls up tighter. "Don't," he says. "Go away."

Derek goes still. "I wasn't going to do anything to you," he says. "I was just going to stay with you."

"Well, could you not?" His voice still sounds like crying. "Could you go?"

Derek kneels beside the bed. "Stiles. Someone hurt you tonight -"

"Oh God, no one hurt me. No one did anything I didn't ask for."

Derek says nothing.

"Do not go maim that frat boy, Derek," Stiles says, feeling tired and dizzy and drunk. "He's not worth it, he's just a punctuation mark."

"A what?" Derek asks softly.

"A period. A mark. To indicate the end of a sentence." Stiles buries his face in his pillow. "Please go away, Derek."

Derek, after a long moment, goes away.


	7. Chapter Seven

 

In the morning, Stiles lays awake and looks at the ceiling.

His hangover is really not as bad as it should be, and he suspects Derek might have done a little juju to drain some of it away while he slept. But he doesn't exactly feel good. His ass hurts, and his skin feels dry and tight all over. A persistent sharp ache lives behind his eyes, and if there was anything in his stomach he knew he'd toss it up. His best bet is to lie perfectly still.

And think.

_We are made of our memories_ , Stiles thinks. 

The bedrock of Stiles's existence, the thing that gives him confidence and courage, is his memories of his father's steadfast love and support. And his memories of Scott's indomitable friendship, too. These memories underpin everything he is.

He's made of more complicated memories as well. His mother. Memories of her kindness and affection, yes, but those memories are distant. More clear are the memories of her illness, her desperation, her anger and fear, the abandonment of her death. Those memories will always be like a trickle of cold water, eroding his bedrock, just a little.

The nogitsune. He tried to deny those memories for a long time - it wasn't him, it _wasn't him_. But though the nogitsune's gone, the memories stay with him. Those memories _are_ him. If memories of Dad and Scott support him, and memories of Mom undermine him, then memories of the nogitsune are a treacherous pile of rusting garbage, all jagged edges and fishhooks, down there at the bottom of his soul. Part of him now, those memories. They always will be.

And then. His beautiful werewolf.

Stiles will always remember being loved by Derek. Derek had kissed him like he was precious, had looked at him like he was beautiful, had made love to him like the world was ending, and nothing mattered but loving Stiles.

_You have to believe me, Stiles. I love you._

_I love you too. I've always loved you._

That memory will always be part of Stiles, too. Always, always, always.

But Derek doesn't remember what Stiles remembers. Derek remembers an annoying kid, bright but hyper, secretly fascinated, full of insecurity, kind of a spaz. Derek doesn't remember loving him. Derek, today's Derek, is a man who has never loved him. Those memories aren't part of who Derek is anymore.

And that ... is just the way it is.

Tears trickle from the corners of his eyes, down his temples and into his hair, as he thinks about memories. He would mourn this, he thinks. For a long time. 

But it's over.

Finally, he sits up. He wipes his eyes, sniffling. There's a bottle of water on the bedside table. Derek must've left it there. Not because he loves Stiles, but because Derek protects and cares for the people he feels responsible for. Even the ones he doesn't actually like very much.

Stiles drinks the water.

He gets out of bed and pulls on some clothes, washes his face, and then, pushing himself through reluctance, pulls down his big suitcase from the top of his closet, and begins to pack his clothes.

***

He doesn't see or hear Derek anywhere as he leaves his room, but he does see that he's eaten breakfast: a quarter of the blueberry cake is gone. Well, good. It was his, after all. The sight of it makes Stiles a little queasy. He hefts his heavy suitcase out the front door loads it into the trunk of his car.

He's making his second trip to the car - his laptop in its case, a box with some work files and documents, a case with his toiletries balanced on top - when he sees Derek. Standing in the backyard in jeans and a gray henley, barefoot in the brown November grass, staring out towards the Preserve. He looks moody and vulnerable and handsome, and Stiles shakes himself and turns away.

Third and last trip to the car: a big cardboard box full of mementos, his pillow, some books. The house is still full of stuff that belongs to one or the other or both of them, but he's ready to leave it all behind. He slams the trunk and turns to find that Derek is there, watching, his brows drawn - not in anger, this time, but confusion. 

"You ... you're leaving."

"Yeah," says Stiles. "Listen, we still have several months on our lease, but if you don't want to stay here the landlord will probably let us break it, he's pretty nice."

"I remember him," says Derek.

"Right, okay." Stiles is distracted; he wants to get out of here, not talk to Derek. "If he asks for a money, just text me, I'll send you my share. Same with the utilities and whatever. Let me know if -"

"I remember him," says Derek again. "I remember you. I remember everything." He steps closer, and Stiles backs up a step. 

Yes. Clearly, Derek, his Derek, is back. This is the Derek who lets Stiles see what he's feeling. He looks bewildered and shaken.

"Why are you leaving?" says Derek. "I know I was rude - I was angry, I didn't remember. Last night -"

"Last night happened," says Stiles, and Derek's throat moves as he swallows. Oh, it _hurts_ to hurt Derek. Stiles's' heart feels cold and hard, like stone.

Derek steps closer. "You were right. We weren't under a spell. Except the one that gave me amnesia."

Stiles steps back, and now he's right against the car door. "You were right. We were under a spell. We were living a dream, and now we're awake."

Derek looks flummoxed. "No," he says. "I remember. I think it must have been Carrie-Ann Mason, because when I ate the cake -"

"Fine," says Stiles. "That's great, Derek. I'm glad you got your memories back. Now could you step back? I've got a long drive ahead of me and I'd like to get going."

Derek growls. He's trapped Stiles against the car. "Why are you leaving?" he demands.

"Why did last night happen, Derek?"

Derek's nostrils flare. He said, "I don't know."

"You lost one year," says Stiles. "One year. You've known me for over a decade. I saved you from drowning. I hid you when you were on the run. You never forgot any of that, right?" They're standing nose-to-nose, and Stiles is vibrating with hurt and fury. "You never forgot the nogitsune. You never forgot what that thing did. And you fucking accused me of doing that to you."

"What," breathes Derek. "No."

"No? A _love spell_? Making you feel what you don't really feel? Making you do things that you wouldn't ever do? It's magic rape, Derek, and you. Accused. Me. Of. That." Stiles is nearly hyperventilating with fury.

"I -" stammers Derek. "I remember now," he says. "I remember how we were. I know you didn't do that."

"I remember you thinking that I did," says Stiles. "We are made of memories, Derek. And I remember you thinking that I would do that. I'll always remember it. So get the fuck out of my way."

Derek steps back. Stiles gets into the car, starts the engine with trembling hands, and drives away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is going to start to lighten up a little after this.


	8. Chapter Eight

Two weekends later, Scott and Stiles are sitting on the floor in Scott's big pack house northwest of Seattle, playing _Destiny 2_. Just two old buddies, shoulder-to-shoulder, wordlessly killing bad guys with energy weapons, as intended by the Lord.

Scott and Kira have been awesome. They took him in, kept him fed and made him sleep and work at regular intervals, made him call his dad. They summoned the pack for distraction and affection, sent them away again when he needed to be alone to brood. Listened to him without judgment. 

(Well. Mostly without judgment. _Oh, real mature, Stilinski_ , Scott said, when he'd gotten to the part about the hotel room. Which. Fair.) 

 Now Scott says, "You got those guys on the left?"

He shoots the guys on the left. They play on.

Stiles's temper has cooled a lot. He's still hurt and scared and confused, but he's not so angry anymore. More than anything, he misses Derek with an ache in his chest and a burning in his eyes that just won't go away. At night it hurts so bad he cries, as silently as possible, hating the idea that werewolf ears can hear him, but unable to stop.

He just ... doesn't know what to do about it. He wants Derek back, but he doesn't think he should. Derek had actually thought Stiles was capable of casting a love-spell on him. Stiles had gone out and banged a guy, almost solely to assure that he and Derek both knew it was over. He isn't sure if it's possible to come back from any of that. Or if Derek ever would. Or if Stiles is weak and wrong, because he wants to.

One thing about Derek: he is loyal. To family, to friends, to his territory, to his pack. 

Stiles, apparently, not so much.

In the game, waves of enemies descend upon them, to be summarily exterminated by their fast reflexes and excellent teamwork, until a critical moment when they walk into an ambush and Scott completely fails to react. "Dude, what the hell," cries Stiles, diving for cover while Scott just stands there, not defending him. "Where are you?"

Scott drops his game controller, stretches lionlike to his feet, and stalks out of the room and out of the house, leaving the front door standing open. On the screen, Stiles's character dies an ignominious death while he sits on the floor and watches Scott, open-mouthed. Through the open doorway, he sees Scott march up to Derek, who is standing on the front lawn.

"Why are you here," demands Scott. Not shifted, but very nearly glowing with protectiveness, pushing right into Derek's space.

"Just want to talk to Stiles."

"Stiles doesn't want to talk to you."

"Stiles can tell me that himself."

"What's going on?" asks Kira, coming into the room. Stiles is now hiding behind the couch, listening to the two werewolves. He shushes her.

"Stiles," Scott is saying, "came here to get away from you."

"I know," says Derek.

"He said his piece before he left."

"Trust me, I'm aware," says Derek.

"I'm feeling exactly like a rawhide chew," says Stiles to Kira.

"I'm not going to do anything to him, Scott," says Derek. "I just want to give him some information. I found out more about what happened, and I just - just want to tell him. And then I'll go, okay?"

"You could have called."

Derek's voice is almost inaudible. "I wanted to see him."

Kira shoots Stiles a look that says _Are you just going to sit there?_

"Okay," says Stiles, standing up from his hiding place behind the couch. "Okay."

He grabs his jacket, slides his feet into sneakers, and goes out into the front yard, pretending that his stomach isn't jumpy with nerves and his legs aren't shaking. Derek's eyes meet his and they shine, and Stiles feels the power of that glance go right through him, like music. 

He approaches, eyes on Derek, but before he can reach him Scott hooks a long arm around Stiles's neck and pulls him into a hug. He jams Stiles's face into his shoulder, presses his cheek to Stiles's hair, and glares Derek down. Stiles can feel his Alpha aura like heat shimmer. The message could not possibly be more obvious - _This one is mine, and you will not hurt him._

"God, okay Scottie, I think we get it," he says, voice muffled by Scott's shoulder. "Come on, quit. Let me talk to him."

He squirms free of Scott's embrace and walks past them, away from the house.

"Where are we going?" Derek asks, willingly following Stiles.

"There's a playground down the block. Away from big ears." He glances over his shoulder at Scott, who is still standing there, arms folded, shooting lasers out of his eyes at Derek.

"It's like you just peed on me," he calls to Scott, who shrugs.

It's a cold and windy day, threatening rain, so the park is empty. They find a deserted redwood play structure, with ladders to different-level platforms and a slide. Derek sits on one of the platforms, facing out, scanning the park as if he thinks enemies might appear from the trees. This wary posture is so normal and familiar, it makes Stiles's throat ache. Derek only lets his guard lapse when he's alone with Stiles, in their home.

Derek looks good. He always looks good, he can hardly help it, but he's made a bit of an effort today: jeans that look new and dark, a heather-green shirt that he knows Stiles likes.

Stiles leans on a ladder. "Hi, Derek."

"Hey." Derek glances at him. The corners of his mouth and eyebrows turn down a little: a tiny, rueful smile. "It's nice to see you, Stiles."

Damn, what he wouldn't have given for that sad smile two weeks ago. "You too," he says faintly, and sits beside him.

Derek returns his attention to his scan of the park.

He says, "The day before my birthday. I saw Andy Mason drop a pistol into a storm drain. He'd accidentally shot your dad a year before and hid the gun in the empty lot beside the bakery, but they're building some new condos on that lot, so he needed to move the gun. I didn't know any of that, of course, but I saw him dispose of the gun, and he saw me watching. I was going to mention it to you that day, but you distracted me when I got home."

"I did?"

" _Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon_ ," says Derek, eyes on the trees.

"Oh. Right."

"Andy told his sister Carrie-Ann what I'd seen, and she did the spell that night, while we were asleep, to make me forget about the gun. But she was panicking and in a rush, and she got it wrong. She told me that she could feel the spell spiral out of control as soon as she released it. She knew she'd made me forget too much. She said she was awake all night, agonizing about what to do. She had that order for my birthday cake, so she baked a charm into the cake to reverse the spell, and then she took Andy to the sheriff's office and made him confess. But we never came and got the cake."

"She brought it to the house," says Stiles. "She seemed super-nervous."

"She was terrified. Scared that she'd messed me up forever, scared that your dad was going to take vengeance on poor Andy -"

"He would never."

"I know. She's just used to shielding him. But she knew she'd messed up and she tried to make it right."

Stiles sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Okay," he says.

Okay. So that was what happened. One poor guy who didn't know any better made a mistake, and his sister made it worse, and the mistakes rippled outward, and now here they are, Stiles and Derek, talking like ... like acquaintances. 

And what had done this to them? Not a demon, not an assassin, not a pack of rageaholic Alphas. Just mistakes, and mistakes, and mistakes.

They sit quietly together for a while, the cool breeze blowing leaves around them.

"How are you doing?" asks Stiles.

"Okay," says Derek, impassive. "You?"

"I'm fine," says Stiles. 

He's dying inside. 


	9. Chapter Nine

 

Stiles wishes he could forget about the things they said to each other, the things they did, but memory isn't that kind.

As if reading his thoughts, Derek says, "You said we were made of our memories."

Stiles hunches against the cold wind, eyes down.

Derek shifts, abandons his defensive scan of the park and turns so he's facing Stiles. "Do you remember how we used to fight? Before you left for college, I mean. We couldn't even talk to each other without fighting."

Oh, like Stiles could forget. "Playful banter?" he suggests, feigning lightness he doesn't feel.

"You would just _scorn_ me," says Derek. "You hated me."

"I never hated you."

"You acted like you did. And I threatened to kill you several times. I think you believed me."

"Yeah, you were pretty convincing, actually," Stiles admits.

"So when I had amnesia, you weren't fighting with me, and I was so confused," says Derek. "I knew something was wrong with my head. Everything was unfamiliar and, just, _strange_. And the strangest thing was you, being so _nice_ and friendly and funny. Because - in my memory - you were never like that with me."

"Yeah, I mean, I understood that."

"See?" Derek gestures at him. " _Understanding_. It was not the Stiles I remembered. And I was freaking out, I was so angry and frustrated, and I was pushing your buttons, Stiles. I was trying to get you to react the way you used to. It seemed like you were just confidently waiting for me to love you again, and I was so sure ... you wouldn't. You wouldn't really feel that way. With me."

Stiles is impressed by how much Derek is talking. He knows this isn't Derek's strong suit - he's good at communicating with actions, gestures, meaningful gifts. Talking about feelings is way outside his wheelhouse. He nods encouragingly, staying silent, and Derek, looking uncomfortable, keeps going.

"That night - what I said - Stiles, I was trying to get you to argue. Like we used to. To argue and fight, until we figured it out. And you were right," says Derek. "It was a shitty thing to say. But I - I -"

"Derek," Stiles whispers, because this hurts. "You don't have to."

"Yes," says Derek. "Let me say this, Stiles. Please. Believe me. I _never_ thought you cast a spell on me. I never thought you cast that spell, not for a second."

"You didn't?" whispers Stiles.

"I did not," says Derek. "I just, it was driving me crazy, because you didn't seem to understand that something was wrong. I said it to get at you. And then you didn't fight."

Stiles stares at him, incredulous. "You didn't mean it?"

"No."

_"You didn't mean it_ _?"_   Stiles's eyes are full of tears now, tears of pure fury. He punches Derek in the abdomen, fairly hard. _"You asshole!"_

The punch doesn't even get a flinch out of Derek. "Do you remember?" he says. "One time I told you I would rip your throat out with my teeth, but I didn't mean that either."

Stiles punches him again. "You are such a dick!"

"That's what I thought you were going to say!" cries Derek. "I thought you were going to call me names! Prove me wrong! But you just ... You responded like I'd really hurt you. You just folded up, and then I didn't know what to do." 

"Jesus Christ, Derek, I was in love with you," he says, wretched. "You can't hit that low when someone's in love with you."

"I know." Derek ducks his head, hesitates, and Stiles knows he's trying to find the right words. "I did remember what the nogitsune did to you. I knew ... I'd forgotten that it still haunts you as much as it does, after all this time ... but that's not an excuse, because I knew you, and I knew it would. I should never have said it."

Stiles shivers. He huddles into his jacket, but it doesn't seem to be protecting him from the cold. Derek reaches out and touches his face, and his palm is so warm against the icy skin of his cheek that Stiles can't help but turn his face into that touch, press against it.

"I'm so sorry," says Derek. "I just ... I didn't remember that I had the power to hurt you. I didn't believe that you really loved me."

Of course. Of course, of course. Stiles squeezes his eyes shut.

He remembers one time Derek _hit_ him - in his old long-dead jeep, Derek had smacked his face against the steering wheel. Not even hard enough to bruise, but yeah, he'd hit him. But since Stiles came back, since they got together, Derek had never done anything like that. Derek knew you didn't hit someone who loved you; he knew that you didn't strike at your lover's weakest point. But Amnesia Derek didn't believe that Stiles was his lover.

He knows he should have the will to pull away from Derek's touch, but he doesn't.

Derek has his own burden of toxic memories that make him who he is. Kate, and Jennifer. And fucking Peter. Of course he wouldn't know how to trust or believe what Stiles had been trying to tell him. Stiles knows that. Why hadn't he remembered that?

Mistakes, and mistakes, and mistakes.

They're quiet. Stiles sits with his hands in his pockets his head bowed, his face resting in Derek's hand. Derek leans towards him, brings up his other hand to stroke him, tracing his eyebrows, his ear, his hair. Like he's precious to Derek.

If it was nothing but mistakes, why couldn't they try again? Stiles turns his face so that his lips are against Derek's palm. His eyes are closed, his heart fluttering with fragile hope. Why couldn't they try again, this time without the mistakes?

"Derek," Stiles whispers. "Why are you here? What do you want?"

"I want you to believe me," says Derek, immediately. His voice has fallen to a velvety growl, almost inaudible. "I want you to forgive me. I want that memory, of what I said ... I don't want you to forget it, but I want that memory to not hurt you any more. Because I didn't mean it. And I know I should have known not to say it. I'm sorry."

Stiles nods. He keeps his eyes shut, because he doesn't want the tears behind his eyelids to start falling. He says, "I believe you."

"You do?"

"It's exactly the kind of thing you would have done, before. You asshole."

Derek sighs. He's so close, Stiles can feel his sigh on his face.

"And I forgive you for saying it," he says. "I forgot, too. I forgot about ... I knew your past was part of what you are. So I understand why you didn't believe in me." He gathers his fragile courage and adds, all in a rush, "I'm sorry I went and picked up that boy. I knew that would hurt you, and that's why I did it. It was wrong. I was just ... reacting, but it was wrong. I'm sorry."

Derek's fingers curl into his hair. "If ... Stiles, if someone hurts you, you gotta fight back. You should've told me to go to hell. You should've, I don't know, set my car on fire. Assemble a dossier of evidence demonstrating that I was a dumbass. You shouldn't punish yourself. You gotta fight."

"I was," said Stiles. "I was fighting dirty."

Derek nods.

"Do you forgive me for that, too?"

"Yes."

_Really?_ Stiles studies him, and Derek looks back, fearless. 

And Stiles realizes that they aren't only made of memories. Derek is made of loyalty. Derek's bones are made of faithfulness, his blood runs true. Derek has lost everything to betrayal, but he doesn't stop loving once he starts. Stiles should have known that his reckless act couldn't change that.

The butterfly fluttering in his heart is getting stronger, lighter. Starting to feel like faith, and happiness. Derek made a mistake. He'd made a mistake. Their memories had pushed them wrong, but maybe they could try again. If Derek is willing. And Derek is brave. Maybe he'll be willing.

"Tell me what else you want," says Stiles.

"What else?"

"Yeah."

He's looking into Derek's eyes. That strange gray-green-blue color, gold around the pupils, shadowed by black lashes. He wonders if his own ordinary brown eyes are full of the hope and fear and faith and happiness that's starting to fill his heart. Their faces are inches apart.

"I want you to be happy," says Derek. "I want you to always be safe, and always be happy." He hesitates, and then adds, "I want you to remember that you're loved, wherever you go, always."

Stiles tilts his head, examining him curiously. Derek's hands drop away from Stiles's face, and the distance between them opens. 

Derek isn't going to ask him to come back to him. 

Because of that pile of rotting memories: because of Kate, because of Jennifer. Because of Peter. Because his parents left him too soon, because his pack died, because he's spent too much time alone. 

Derek adds, "If you ... visit Beacon Hills, to see your dad, you don't have to worry about running in to Jared Coyne. He's never coming back."

"Who?"

Derek's eyebrows quirk.

"Oh. I hope he's still got all his teeth, murderwolf," Stiles says sternly. "He didn't actually do anything wrong."

Derek says, in the same tone, "Sometimes bad things happen to innocent people."

"Oh, they do?"

"They do if he ever sets one fucking foot back in Beacon County."

Stiles tries to look disapproving. Derek drops his eyes but a grin is pulling at his mouth, not at all abashed. Stiles presses his lips together against an answering smile.

Stiles's heart is full of light. Derek loves him. Derek smiled. 

But Derek isn't going to ask him to come back. Remember that you're loved, he had said. 

Fuck that passive-voice bullshit.

Stiles says, "I love you. I loved you when I was a boy and didn't know what it meant, and I love you now, and I loved you when I thought you had forgotten who I was, I loved you when I thought you thought the worst thing about me -" Derek's eyes are wide - "and I've loved you every day since then, and I will always love you."

Derek seems to be unable to speak.

"And I'm scared that I've lost you, I'm scared we broke it and it can't be fixed, but if you want me to, Derek, I would try again. I want to come home -"

That last word comes out a squeak, and then he can't speak at all because Derek is crushing him, is holding him so tight he can barely breathe.  

"Derek - ooof -"

And they're on the ground, in the cold grass, and Stiles begins to giggle because Derek is rolling them around in the grass like a happywolf, growling and rubbing his face against Stiles's neck and tangling their legs together. Derek rolls them into in a pile of autumn leaves and pins him down so he can rub leaves and grass, and his hands, all over Stiles's body and in his hair, while Stiles laughs and struggles. They wrestle, and he ends up on top of Derek, straddling his hips. Derek, grass-stained and laughing with joy, on his back in the grass.

"Did you get all Scott's smell off me, you big animal?"

"Not yet," says Derek, smiling wickedly.

Stiles leans down over him and squeezes with his legs, loving the feel of these lean hips between his thighs, this flat belly against his groin, and he feels Derek inhale, feels his big hands clasp his waist. 

"We won't fight dirty any more," says Stiles.

"No." 

"We know each other too well. We're too good at hurting each other."

"I'm never going to hurt you again."

"Never?"

Derek's hands slide up his back, pull Stiles closer. Close enough to bump noses. "We'll fight, but we'll fight fair," he says.

"That's a deal. Do we still have a place to live?"

Derek nods again.

"Can we go? Can we go home, Derek?"

"Yes," breathes Derek. "Please." And he arches up, pulls Stiles down into a kiss. 

It's a hard kiss, full of relief and joy and _Oh God, I almost lost you_. Stiles opens his eyes slowly, his whole body humming with _I missed you_ and _I love you_ and _We're going to try this again_. And they still have a lot to talk about, broken bonds to repair.

But first. "When we get home," promises Stiles, "I am going to fuck you into the mattress." 

Derek's eyes flare. "How soon can we leave?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my very first fanfic, and though I know it's very imperfect, it's been so much fun to write. Thank you for reading and for your comments; they mean the world to me.


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